


You Put My Head in Such a Flurry, Flurry

by alexenglish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 06:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12953637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: Hey You, Stop Blushing at the Werewolf and Eat Your Sandwich, Stiles Stilinski.Self portrait, charcoal on buff wove paper, 9 x 15.





	You Put My Head in Such a Flurry, Flurry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cosim18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosim18/gifts).



> Dear Cosi, here's a little bit of silly, fluffy cheer for you this holiday season, hope you enjoy! <3

Stiles blames the way the moon hangs fat, and heavy, and nearly full in the sky for how nearly full the bag on his back is. And the one in his hand. If he didn’t have his art bag on him, he’d be severely off-balance, but as luck would have it, he had two back-to-back three hour classes before his afternoon shift so skateboarding isn’t as dangerous as it could be.

The trip to Idle Hands doesn’t take _too_ long. Stiles has his ear buds in, ignoring the stream of passing cars and the honking his illegal use of crosswalks elicits. The sidewalk cracks make his wheels bump rhythmically as he kicks and pushes. It’s chilly as hell. Stiles has a hoodie on over a plaid shirt over an undershirt, and it’s not enough to combat the cool of the night.

And okay, sometimes he forgets it’s December. Southern California isn’t exactly known for it’s winter, especially not in the past few years with global warming on the rise. Technically it’s his fault, but he also didn’t think he was going to be hand delivering nearly two dozen sandwiches across downtown at nine o’clock at night, _did he_?

The blue and purple neon TATTOO sign sticks out from the side of the building as he rolls up. Obvious between the bright, washed out Rite-Aid fluorescent lights and the liminal dark insides of the 24-hour laundromat on the other side. Stiles is pretty sure a coven of urban witches meets up there every new moon, but he isn’t around enough to prove it.

The white light of the tattoo shop, very different from the stale yellow of the Rite-Aid, spills out invitingly onto the sidewalk as Stiles slides to a stop. From the outside, Stiles can see Derek at the front counter, frowning at his computer.

There are only two stations visible from the door: Cora’s and Lydia’s. Cora is on her phone, boots up on the low concrete wall separating her from the waiting area. Lydia is across from her, sketching at her light table, red hair spilling over it lit up orange. Behind them are the cabinets of body jewelry, the hallway to the private tattoo stations lined with full length mirrors.

There isn’t anyone else that he can see, but considering the number of sandwiches Stiles thinks there definitely has to be more people inside, but this close to a full moon? Realistically, could be a toss up. Stiles hopes Scott's around. Despite seeing him exactly 6 hours and 27 -- 28 minutes ago before he started his shift at work, he'd still like to see Scott.

“I come bearing gifts,” Stiles announces, after he wrestles with the door and manages to get himself and everything on his person inside.

He kicks his skateboard in the direction of the couch, watching it roll underneath the table with the portfolios on it instead. He sighs and lets his art bag slide off his shoulder onto the nearest chair. It’s one of the ones Derek commissioned with the gaudy design on its uncomfortably high back. It’s an ugly chair.

“They’re not gifts if I paid for them, Stiles,” Derek grunts, looking up from his computer.

Stiles shrugs at him. “Paid _and_ tipped generously,” Stiles reminds him, tugging the receipt out of the bag and sliding it in front of Derek before setting the sandwiches on the counter. Once his hands are free, he wrangles his backpack off and pulls the second bag of sandwiches out from inside. “Sorry, these might be squished. Didn’t have the hands.”

“I’m deducting that from your tip,” Derek says flatly, even as he slides the signed receipt back over.

The tip is good. Stiles grins at him.

“You’d never!”

“He’d never what?” Cora asks, drifting over. There’s a fresh tattoo on the inside of her arm, a day or two old, lines still starkly black. Stiles can’t really make out what it is. Scales? Feathers? Fur? Ha.

“Neglect me,” Stiles says dramatically. “After all the hard work I do for you guys.”

“Yes, delivering sandwiches is such a hardship,” Cora clucks, tugging the bags over to her and starting to unload. Three piles of four sandwiches, a pile of five sandwiches, one tossed to Lydia, and the last sniffed disdainfully before she slides it across the counter to Stiles. “Banana peppers,” she sneers.

“So good,” he loud-whispers at her, moaning as he unwraps the sandwich.

“There are sex noises happening, Stiles must be here,” Malia says loudly, coming from the back. The tips of her hair are dipped purple to match her nails. She laughs when he flips her off, hand smacking at Scott.

 _Scott_.

Stiles’ heart kicks up, cheeks going warm. There’s a scatter of chuckles as the wolves sense the change. Which is pretty rude. It’s not Stiles’ fault that he reacts to Scott so obviously. Especially not now that they’ve been on actual _dates_ , and Stiles knows what it’s like to hold Scott’s _hand_ , and knows what it’s like to _kiss him_.

The only reason it's less embarrassing than it was before is the fact that they're dating now. He used to blush and stutter and get anxious around Scott, and everyone  _knew_. It was mortifying. Stiles even went so far as to purchase a poorly constructed charm made of oak. One he hoped and prayed would keep the wolves from sensing his reaction -- it only worked sometimes.

Apparently, Stiles _wanted_ Scott to know how he felt.

Stupid magic, always attempting to make someone’s deepest desire come true without any consideration for self-preservation.

Like, it _worked_ , but there were a few terrible days before he said anything where he was constantly tomato red, with the heart rate of a damn rabbit, extra anxious about his charm not working around Scott.

He vowed to never buy janky magical objects from Mason Hewitt ever again. He definitely broke that vow last week when Mason showed him a charm that supposedly brought good luck to the wearer -- not like, normal good luck either, like _intense_ good luck -- something Stiles  _needed_ , okay? He was going to wear it on his next date with Scott.

His next real date, of course. Despite the way Scott walks right over and bumps their hips together before settling next to him on the counter, Stiles doesn’t count this as a real date. They’re just pairing off. Scott steals a banana pepper from Stiles’ sandwich with a wink, and Stiles’ heart does something funny in his chest that makes Scott grin and duck his head while Derek makes a noise of disgust.

“I have adrenal issues!” Stiles protests. “Stop shaming me!”

“I don’t think generalized anxiety disorder qualifies as ‘adrenal issues,’ Stilinski,” Lydia says, raising her eyebrows. It’s all very judgemental.

“Adrenal fatigue is caused by chronic anxiety,” Stiles tells her. He’s mostly sure it’s true. Either way, they should stop shaming him on principle. He reacts obviously, he _knows_.

“I think it’s cute,” Scott says, smile going sweet and private for Stiles.

“Of course you do,” Stiles groans, taking a vicious bite of his sandwich. “Because you’re _perfect_.”

Scott laughs delightedly, scooting closer to squeeze Stiles’ hip before he reaches for his own sandwich.

They stay pressed together while they eat, swaying together, hips and knees knocking. Scott hooks an ankle around one of Stiles’ and anchors them together. Stiles has to lean extra hard on his elbows to keep from wobbling, but it’s worth it.

After the victuals are consumed, Scott insists on snooping through Stiles’ art bag. There’s a rough drafting sketch book that Stiles always lets Scott see, but he’s nosy about the bigger stuff. The end of semester projects and shit that end up in the art department shows. Most of actual work in progresses that’ll go towards final assessment stay at school, but Stiles is working on a charcoal series that he lets Scott ‘ohh’ and ‘ahh’ over; watching in amusement as Scott only touches the very edge with his fingertips, delicately looking through each piece.

“Do you ever think about apprenticing?” Scott had asked, after they had first met and Scott found Stiles' Instagram through one of the others'. He every single one of Stiles pictures in one go -- most of which were sketches and doodles and the occasional shot from a show. Scott's enthusiasm made Stiles' stomach knot up.

“Nah, I mean, I’m into it,” Stiles said, gesturing around him. They were slumped together on the couches at the front of the shop, watching an old episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta. 

After he started delivering for the sub shop, he ended up hanging out at the tattoo parlor more often than not. He knew Cora and Lydia from the mixed media course they all took during his second semester. Watching people draw and get drawn on for hours was pretty inspiring. He just refused to get a tattoo out of sheer fear, and maintained that refusal when the hot new tattoo artist started working Saturday through Wednesday. Scott wasn’t allowed to see how panicked the idea of tattoos got him.

Anyway, into it, but, “I don’t want art to feel like a job. I’d _die_ if I did two, three years as an unpaid apprentice and ended up hating it.”

“Gotta follow your heart, man,” Scott had said, tapping Stiles gently in the middle of his chest, right over his heart. There was an ironic tattoo of a flowering aconite plant on the back of his hand, bright purple and dark green.

Stiles’ pulse leaped so hard, Stiles covered it with a coughing fit, curling away from Scott. That’s when he knew he was _toast_. Scott was handsome, and sweet, and talented, and  _awesome_ , and he wanted Stiles to follow his  _heart_. 

Luckily following his heart meant he ended up with Scott. It worked out perfectly. 

“Are you still coming by tomorrow night?” Stiles asks, after Scott is done complimenting his use of value and line weight until Stiles feels like he’s going to burst out of his skin with a weird mixture of pride and embarrassment.

“If it’s cool with you,” Scott says, dimpling at Stiles. His eyes are always so soft, patient smile on his face. “I know I get rowdy.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, god I really can’t stand getting a giant, fluffy alpha werewolf to cuddle on a full moon.”

It’s something they started even before they were dating. Scott doesn’t technically have a pack since he’s from out of town. The Hale pack invites him on runs, but once they’re worn out, Scott scratches at Stiles’ door and chills until he can transform back at dawn.

Stiles likes it.

Likes getting a big wolfy Scott on his bed, watching Stiles draw at his desk with his head on his paws. Likes when Scott gets bored of him drawing and headbutts his side until Stiles puts down the pencil and climbs in bed. Likes when Scott decides to sit directly on Stiles’ lap while they watch Netflix despite being ginormous.

Stiles likes it _a lot_.

“Even when those cuddles keep you awake?” Scott teases.

“I don’t sleep,” Stiles reminds him. Not that sleep is for the weak, Stiles just has better things to do. Like draw. Or cuddle with alpha werewolves. “I run on like, Mountain Dew and prayers to the Goddess.”

“Lunar power?” Scott suggests, zipping up Stiles’ art bag and putting it on the other side of him so he can scoot closer.

There’s a warm press of lips against Stiles’ cheek; he feels himself flush. “Only on full moons,” he says, grinning.

**Author's Note:**

> [reblog on tumblr!](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/168965929142/my-scilessecretsanta-gift-for-hufflepuffkira)


End file.
